


Halcyon

by orphan_account



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, I Don't Even Know, Joan and Sherlock forever, Reichenswap, they've ruined my life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-06-06
Packaged: 2018-01-26 07:25:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1679780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joan Watson was his Boswell; always by side.<br/>She was the person he loved most in the world.<br/>Joan Watson was.<br/>From present to past, from 'is' to 'was.'</p><p>A/N: Chapter 5 is up whereby their reunite. Sort of.<br/>Anyways, this story is now done and dusted, and a massive thank you to you all for just coming on here and reading it. You all are amazing, honestly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Everyone else seems to think otherwise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hophophop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hophophop/gifts), [language_escapes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/language_escapes/gifts), [beanarie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beanarie/gifts), [sanguinity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguinity/gifts), [NairobiWonders](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NairobiWonders/gifts).



"I go wherever he goes, remember."

Irony. It was able to conquer everything that existed. Pieces of disdain. 

Everything was there: Clyde, the bees,  _even_ the taser Mycroft used on him when she was kidnapped.

Everything was there. Except her.

******

Sherlock Holmes was not a weak man.

Sherlock Holmes will not be broken again. Sherlock Holmes will not fall prey to his demons again. 

Everyone else seemed to think otherwise. Captain Gregson stared into his eyes on occasions, and kept asking how he was holding up. Detective Bell, on the other hand, dropped by, at any hour on any day, uninvited with a smile on his face. He would then proceed to sit and watch him like a hawk, with the same _damn_ smile on his face.

And in the agonising, devastatingly beautiful moments, he imagined her face, and wanted to hold her hand. Trace his finger around the palm lines. He wanted to feel her anger: when her shoulders seemed to tense just before she erupted; her hands in a fist by her side, and her eyes disappointed.

He wanted Joan Watson back again. He wanted his Boswell back. He  _wanted_ his partner back.

Everyone else seemed to think otherwise. 

" _She's dead_ ,  _Sherlock. I am so sorry."_

Everything was there. Except her. 

*******

The funeral is simple yet so, so very bland. Dull. Monotonous. Her mother sobs inconsolably, and her father is a strong silent figure. Surprisingly, there is no sign of her biological father. 

His heart breaks every  _time_ her brother says her name. He desperately wants to climb over, and punch the living daylights out of that bloody despicable man. He desperately wants to tell him, that she is  _not_ dead. She is not. She is not. The coffin does not contain her exquisite body. 

She is alive. Joan Watson is alive.

Everyone else seems to think otherwise. Even Moriarty.

_"She was, and will be such an enigma. I'll miss her dearly."_

******

 Sherlock Holmes will not fall. Sherlock Holmes will not cry.

(You already have, you bastard. Innumerable times.)

Those horrid, horrid people have started to convince him that Watson is dead. His mind is consuming the details, even against his orders. 

Sherlock Holmes is scared.

He is scared he will forget her face. Forget those agonisingly beautiful freckles on her face. He is scared he will forget her voice; her anger; her friendship. The way she smelt: something intangibly Watson. The way she erupted when she disappointed.

He's scared he will forget Joan Watson. His everything.

So, with the energy he has left, he decides to write her a letter. A sign of redemption. 

Everyone else seems to think otherwise. 

  _"Sherlock, you need to get a control of  yourself. Joan is dead. She is not coming back. You need to get better, for her."_

******

He will write her a letter. Maybe, it will convince her to come back. 

Because life without her is unfathomable. Incomprehensible. 

Joan Watson is his beating heart, and he cannot let her go.

He wants her back. 

Partner. 


	2. Letter to Watson: 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The woods are lovely dark and deep,  
> But I have promises to keep,  
> And miles to go before I sleep,  
> And miles to go before sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY JUST READ THIS AND I DON'T KNOW. I tried writing Holmes' style letters, but I do not know how I did. I love how he adores Watson, so maybe there are elements of that.  
> Friendship theme is really strong.  
> JUST READ IT AND LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK!  
> Honestly, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated. Criticism, advice, whatever. Just throw it here.  
> If you are silent, I won't know how I have done. So honestly, anything is appreciated.  
> Cheerio!
> 
> P.S: My imagined address of Holmes' and Watson's place is so incredible that you'll all be gobsmacked.

**Addressed to,**

**Ms Joan Watson**  
 **The Brownstone, Brooklyn, NY**  
  
My dear Watson,  
  
I sincerely hope you're doing well. Both Clyde and the bees- in particular Euglassia Watsonia- have been thinking of you constantly.  
  
The Brownstone feels empty. I cannot list the innumerable reasons as to when it started; I would not go to those lengths to bore you. However, I cannot determine the reasons behind the emptiness of this house. It is one of those arbitrary categories I restrict myself to, and will continue to do. Unlike you, I don't voice my feelings and emotions.  
I am not a nice man, Watson. I am cruel, and can frequently be acerbic to those around me. You've taught me better. Yet, I cannot seem I fulfil the wishes of those I cherish the most.  
Strangers around me seem to label me as a narcissistic creature. Colleagues view me as a pretentious detective. Captain Gregson is continually worried from the cases, and most for my well-being. Detective Bell is adamant on coming to the Brownstone and to watch me work for no particular reason.  
Everything is all but a riddle, wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. As the seconds tick by, our house becomes darker. As minutes go by, our house fades into oblivion, though I try my best to recover it.  
  
Watson, I _need_ you to let me know you're okay. I need you to come back, and save our Brownstone, Clyde and the bees from disappearing altogether. As for me, I will keep fighting. For you, my dear, dear Watson.

  
Watson, I am a drug addict. Yes, I've been sober for over 2 years now. Nevertheless, relapsing is only a moment's time away. You need not worry; I will keep fighting with every fragment of my strength and shall not disappoint you.  
I most certainly can do that much as a sign of gratitude for the compromises you've made for me.  
  
In contrast, your friends, colleagues and family have started this unexplainable morbid fascination as a justification to your absence. They all believe that you are deceased, Watson, and I cannot help as bile rises in my throat from the moment I look upon your carved name on your tombstone.  
I know you are alive, my dear Watson. Even Moriarty, who claims to have eyes and ears everywhere, is dismissive of the fact that you are present in this horrible, horrible world.  
Everything and everyone is grieving for arbitrary purposes, and it irritates me. Mycroft also appears on a sporadic basis, only to denounce you constantly. Fortunately, he has carried a permanently broken nose since.  
  
Watson, I am hopeful that this letter will be able to reach you, but these pessimistic creatures have deviously injected an infinite amount of cynicism into my brain. It bothers me that I can't catalogue the information accordingly, and discard the non-required ones.  
  
Therefore, Alfredo has been telling me to "say what I feel" otherwise I'll supposedly drown in monstrous perils of waves. I don't follow the society's rules but I presume if I reject the instincts, things that have been scaring my demons will become a demon itself. I don't want you to be the person who will inject itself into my brains and appear in front of my face at every moment as a gaunt, hollow creature.  
Irene was a fake persona, yet losing her was beyond my capacity. I fell, and even after today, after knowing she is my nemesis Moriarty, I cannot help but wonder if she would be the same if circumstances were different.

However, then, if there was no Moriarty, there would be no you. I would’ve been most likely in London, consulting for Scotland Yard and spending my mortal years with Irene. It would’ve been the perfect situation back then, in my immature years. I would’ve not known you, Watson. A quite so perfect doctor; an even better detective.

Now I have _this_ , I realise I am fortunate. Not so in the sense that I deserve you for the good I’ve done by giving justice, but in the sense that I’ve found a partner, a friend or even Detective Bell’s words, a ‘better half’. I’ve never quite known, or fully come to appreciate the concept of a home. More so in accordance that I never had something to call home in the first place, more or less. There’s an ignorant father, a dead mother, and a brother who always decides to take matters into his own hands. Ironically, there’s _a_ family, but no  _family_.

This brilliant mind of mine had most certainly decided to follow along with the former reality. And yet. Until I met you, Watson. It is quite ironic, I have to admit. When you were my sober companion, my wishes of you leaving were turning futile, turning every resentment into admiration. Slowly, and yet so quickly, you found a place of your own inside my world. I was surprised, to say the least. Everyone except Irene had failed, hitherto.

Here you were. Joan Watson. Former Surgeon. A sober companion: addict babysitter. Tried to impress her mother but had given up. Biological father rarely remembered you. Stepfather was estranged from mother, but they were trying to reconcile. Brother was engaged to his girlfriend. Had a few friends, but they criticised your new occupation. Tried to redeem yourself. Helping addicts turned into some sort of penance for the accident that occurred during your former career. Colleagues from the hospital –especially friends– begged for you to come back. Return to the profession you excelled at. To the job you loved, and perfected over time. To the occupation for which you dedicated to your life to in university. Nonetheless here you were. With an addict, who had a strange name, but even stranger habits. With an addict, who couldn’t take care of himself and had the most weirdest of occupations. Consulting detective. Was not paid for his services, yet he continued to live in quite a modest brownstone. Had a turtle as a pet, and acquired two cocks (Watson, learn to say this word). Father was a rich man, and brother a restaurateur. Friends and family could not understand the connection. Couldn’t understand why you were so bent on fixing the man who couldn’t be fixed. Yet here you were. Here you were Watson. With Sherlock Holmes, who was positively not a nice man, and had the most acerbic nature.

That’s what everyone assumed on the exterior. They never viewed the interior. Sherlock Holmes waking up Joan Watson at the most ungodly hours. With a tray containing breakfast. He then shifted to selecting clothes and throwing them at her in fond exasperation. How he so admired the woman that had changed his life, willingly and patiently. The career, the tolerance, their partnership. Especially, the friendship. How she stepped forward when he was slapped. How she stood by his side defiantly, when Irene was revealed as Moriarty. How she was determined to solve Moriarty, in order to save Sherlock, not caring for her safety at all. How she smiled when he named a bee after her. _Euglassia Watsonia._ He thought it was the most _extravagant_ of gratitude at that moment of time, but he was so very immature. How she sat next to him, their shoulders lightly touching, as they both solved cases together, with a cup of tea in their hands. The comfortable ambiance and an even comfortable presence. How she spread a blanket over him with a fond smile, when he fallen sleep during the unnecessary ramble. Even tried to count the number of dark circles under his eyes, and the innumerable creases on his forehead. Tried to notice the callouses on his hand from playing the violin so very frequently. And even admired the man who gave his all to solve crimes. To serve justice, at any cost. To the man, she called her best friend. Nonetheless, the fact that she didn’t know was that during the entire time, he was watching her. Sherlock Holmes was not that gullible. He knew she was watching him. He knew her thoughts, and it shocked him that someone could be that selfless to put other’s worries before theirs. He watched the affectionate smile bloom like a flower on her face, like a bright sun on an otherwise gloomy sky, as she glanced around the house and back to his still sleeping figure.

These were the events people did not realise, let alone infer, Watson. Nevertheless, we did not care the least bit about other’s thoughts, or expectations.

There is a silent storm inside me, Watson. I cannot solve the cases without you. I can deduce them, but _I cannot solve them_. Without Watson, Holmes is nothing. He never was, is not, and never will be. I could not have achieved what I have, without my Boswell. Come back, Watson. Return to the Brownstone, to Brooklyn, to New York City, to Clyde, to the bees, to Ms Hudson, to Captain Gregson, to Detective Bell, to Alfredo, to Remus and Romulus. Come back to Holmes again.

It is incomprehensible to imagine a future without you. Even more horrible. I know you are alive. You cannot leave me alone. I know, Watson, I know. I am scared that these people around me will force me to get explain myself. And you know how much I despise people.

Come back Watson. I have been wishing to the ambiances to see you again, knowing my wishes are futile.

Two years, are a lifetime, Watson. Two years are a lifetime.

Although miracles are pointless, I hope for one.

_Don’t be dead, Watson. You’re too precious, too exquisite, and too valuable._

_You are immensely important to lose._

_You are my home, Watson._

 

_I'll be awaiting your reply._

 

_Ever yours,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

 

 

 


	3. From Watson to Holmes: Undelivered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A friend is one that knows you as you are, understands where you have been, accepts what you have become, and still, gently allows you to grow."
> 
> William Shakespeare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Joan replies to Sherlock in the form of a letter, but it never reaches him.

**If undelivered, return to:**

**San Francisco**

Addressed to:

**Sherlock Holmes**

**11 th Precinct, NYPD, New York**

Dear Sherlock,

I am sorry. I am so, so sorry for leaving you. For hurting you like this. Please try to understand. I had no option.

You were in danger. I couldn’t bear to let anything touch you. _Not_ again. Not after what happened in London. Not after Moriarty.

Even now, I can’t write properly because danger is everywhere.

But I promise, Sherlock. I promise. I will come back to you again. To the bees, to Clyde, to the Brownstone.

I promise I will return to my best friend again. Soon, after I take down this bloody empire that stupid Mycroft has created.

And thank you for the punch; he deserved it. You should have damaged more areas, just so he could have learnt his lesson. Asshole.

Sherlock, if there are any problems, talk to someone. Captain Gregson, Detective Bell, Alfredo, Mrs Hudson. Someone. Even talking to the bees will help. Remus or Romulus, the cocks. ( _Are you happy now?)_ Or Clyde. I am sure he gets bored eating lettuce every day. ( _Have you been feeding him lettuce, Holmes?)_

I've left something for you in my night stand; go and see. And as soon as you've read this letter, burn it. Le Milieu has planted cameras everywhere outside the Brownstone, so every connection from me is watched.

Be careful, Sherlock. I am scared _one_ wrong move from me will ruin everything. I promise that nothing will happen to me. I promise to you that I’ll take care of myself. Even in the ridiculous warehouse.

I promise to explain everything and everyone when I get back. But for the while, you need to keep quiet. And somehow, if possible, destroy the cameras that are right outside the door.

Please do everything as I’ve told you.

And for once you were wrong about me, Sherlock. I am not selfless at all. I am most likely the selfish person on this planet. All I care about is myself. And now, that has put you in danger.

So even if something happens to me, promise me that you won’t forget what we were. _Partners_. Even if those people around force to you forget me. Don’t. Because if you do, I wouldn’t have completed my penance.  Because the chances are high. Each eye around New York is looking for me.

Sherlock, there is a possibility that this can be my first and final letter. So I wanted to thank you. For everything. For just _existing_ , for those frustrating mornings, for the cases, for the partnership, for the anger, for the care but most importantly, for the cherished friendship. Mycroft was right, but not fully. I am the person you love most in the world.

 But you are also the person _I_ love most in the world.

You are too important to lose, Sherlock. So, thank you for making me realise myself. As a person, a daughter, a sister, and a best friend. I couldn’t have asked for more. You will always be my inspiration, and my motivation. You were, you are and you will always be the person who has persuaded me to live happily. You, Sherlock Holmes will always be the one and only person you woke me up at 2 am to _go_ to a murder scene.

You will always be the reason I agreed, because I _l oved_ you too much.

It’s a pity that there is a chance that I won’t be able to spend my retirement age with you. But then, there’s always hope. There’s hope that I will take down this empire and come home again. I am hoping for the latter.

_(Can you imagine us as old people? I can’t. All I can imagine is you still pestering Captain Gregson and Marcus to put us both on a case, regardless of the fact that both Holmes’ and Watson’s skin is wrinkled, and we both can’t run properly anymore. And I’ll probably argue as defence, but in the end I’ll be the one pestering them for more and more cases, because you've made me agree too.)_

If something happens to me, don’t forget to feed Clyde, and take care of Euglassia Watsonia, Remus and Romulus.

Because I will be among the stars; a smile on my face as I watch my better half learn to live again.

Ever yours,

Joan Watson

P.S: The world doesn't need to worry. As long as Holmes and Watson are alive, everything and everyone are safe. I’ll be back, Sherlock. I promise. Just hang on tightly; there’s not long to go.

 

*****

Joan sends this letter safely, but it never reaches Sherlock. It gets lost between the fast-paced city of New York; a memory lost, a friendship forgotten in some idiot’s bin. Two more years passes; four _complete_ years since Joan Watson’s ‘death’.

Sherlock has fallen prey to grief again. He functions, solves cases, talks, eats, communicates and lives like a robot. Waiting for four years, he has lost all hope. Emotions, feelings; the Sherlock, Watson knew has disappeared into the dark alleyways never willing to return.

On the cold nights, he sits in front of a fireplace and thinks about Joan Watson. Thinks about the beautiful smile on her face, her warm and caring nature and the shining freckles.

He thinks about those never-ending nights where the storm was raging outside, the fireplace was wavering, the walls were screaming, the wind was howling, and the house was judging. He thinks about those never-ending nights where the drugs were begging, Irene was mocking, Moriarty was scorning, his father was deriding and his brother was seizing everything.

But those nights _never_ bothered him, because he had Watson by his side. Those nights _never_ destroyed him because Watson was holding his hand tightly, willing to never let go. Those nights _never_ shattered him because Watson was next to him, willing to listen and willing to stay.

Those nights never appear since Watson has died. The storm never rages, the fireplace never wavers, the walls never scream, the wind never howls and the house never judges. The drugs never entice, Irene never appears, Moriarty never mocks, his father never derides and his brother never seizes.Neither of those incidents happens and none of those people appear. 

She returns exactly, four years and one month after her death anniversary, but Sherlock Holmes has all but withered. The only defiance that's left is him is his sobriety. Watson was his sober companion. Sherlock knows that his companion ( _partner, you idiot)_  has disappeared ( _no she has_   _not_ _;_ _she can't)_ , but his sobriety will stay. ( _for how long, Sherlock Holmes, for how long?)_


	4. Not now, not ever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s like the water cycle now, where the water evaporates from the ocean in the form of water vapour and eventually returns to land and sea in the form of precipitation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow, I cannot stop writing.   
> Thank you for all the comments, and kudos. It means a lot to me, honestly.

“Holmes, wait up.”

Sherlock stops abruptly in his eagerness to disappear from the precinct, but Captain Gregson’s ask pauses him. He never understands why. He doesn’t want to deal with anyone right now. His body is empty but his mind is ready to burst, unsurprisingly as ever.  

“Captain, how may I be of assistance to your innumerable needs?” Gregson rolls his eyes at Sherlock’s sarcastic comment, and lets it go. He’s been through enough. This news will worsen it even more.

“There’s news,” he pauses in his speech, in trepidation of the outburst, “we found her.”

Five words are enough to make Sherlock run out the door, pushing everything and everyone out of the way. By the time he gets out of the building, more than half tables as well as the police officers are down on the ground considering adding Holmes’ name on the murder list, and making it a top priority. Bell notices the commotion and the Captain’s following figure, and does he never thought would do.

He follows them.

“Nash, you take the lead on the case, and interview the suspect.  I’ve got something important.” Bell’s ensuing figure makes no difference to everyone’s stunned faces, as they begin to deduce the incident that just take place.

***

Even for his age, Captain Gregson is fast to catch up to Sherlock. Bell –smarter than ever– takes the shorter route to the Brownstone and gets there exactly as Captain Gregson is catching his breath.

“Where’s Holmes?” There’s no sign of Sherlock.

“In there,” Gregson replies beckoning towards the door, and then turns his face towards Marcus again, “this is going to be tough.”

Knocking doesn’t prove very hard, but Sherlock not opening the door becomes frustrating.

“Holmes, open the door. _Holmes._ ” Gregson’s voice is agitated, but there are hints of worry in there. Bell apparently senses something dreadful as well, because there are only a few seconds of clarity before he picks the lock, opens the door and storms inside. An explanation can wait later.

Darkness surrounds each element of the house, and Joan’s coat still hangs next to Sherlock’s. Her book still lies on the table, with layers of dust all around the edges. Her set of keys to the Brownstone, still lies in the same position on top of the book. Any stranger would assume the occupants were either too busy or too lazy to clean the house.

But only friends would feel their hearts break to see the manuscript that lies on the dining table, beside Sherlock’s debut as a photographer (he did quite well taking the pictures of the bees).

Both the men walk over and read the title, and their hands threaten to shake in grief.

**_Euglassia Watsonia:_ **

_The birth of a new species: An introductory and detailed guide on the achievements of bees from birth to death_

_Researchers: Joan Watson & Sherlock Holmes_

Bell and Captain Gregson knew both Sherlock and Joan well enough to know they wouldn’t leave something as precious as this lying around. Not unless something drastic occurs.

Sherlock’s pained voice echoes off the walls, loudly and profoundly than ever.

“She had such high optimisms for the manuscript.” They hear the implicit meanings behind his statement, and it keeps repeating itself before Bell squeezes his hands into a fist.

_She had. She. Joan Watson. Had. Not has. But had. Dead. Disappeared. Perished unnecessarily. He is unable to fulfil her wishes. Doesn’t deserve to be her best friend. Why is she gone? She left Euglassia Watsonia all here alone. Why does she have to be dead? Why? Why can’t I solve this puzzle; deduce this problem? I am to blame for everything. _

Joan Watson and Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes and Joan Watson. Watson and Holmes. Sherlock and Joan.

_Dissimulation takes its time._

Both Captain Gregson and Detective Bell jump in shock when the vase hits the naked floor with a _crack._

Sherlock’s melancholy eyes float like a vista of memories in front of them, and it is too much. He needs to know.

_“I’ll be back soon.” (She had said that before leaving the house)_

“Sherlock, they found her. In San Franciso. Conserved by some maniac.”

“When can I see her?” If anyone looked at Sherlock’s shattered figure in the armchair, it would be enough for a lifetime.

“No, Holmes. She’s-“

“I know.” Sherlock gets their reaffirmation first.

“-dead.”

It seems too easy to complete the sentence for Gregson. There is too much tension in the room; their breaths are elevated, and their hands are clammy.

Sherlock doesn’t speak for a long time. He sits there on the armchair; eyes still on the beautiful letterform in the manuscript and his mind reiterating her name over and over again. He tries to form the connection between the word ‘dead’ and ‘Joan Watson’ and is successful.

It’s like the water cycle now, where the water evaporates from the ocean in the form of water vapour and eventually returns to land and sea in the form of precipitation. There are stages: evaporation, transport, condensation, precipitation, groundwater and run-off, which returns the water back to the land and the oceans. Some sort of arbitrary balance, as his Nanny used to teach him.

The pieces of knowledge ( _it has its costs; seeing the puzzles in everything)_ drop, finding others of their own kind, where they gather together and grow into something beautiful; something extraordinary. They find the mighty rivers and oceans, and crusade through the darkness to carve out their own way. But they cannot stay forever. The water beads are snatched and divided back to the mountains, back to their origin. _The lucky ones._ Others stay to serve the land and the oceans, just to try it again. Many perish in the process. ( _You always know it, Watson, otherwise it wouldn’t be penance)_

Two beads are left, holding each other’s hands. They try again.

Sherlock is broken from his reverie by the loud and frantic knocks on the door. He senses a presence, but not now. He cannot have hopes _now._

“Sherlock. Captain Gregson. Marcus.”

_Not now. Not her. It’s too familiar._

Sherlock closes his eyes shut abruptly, and winces in pain. The voice is too familiar, and a Gregson’s and Bell’s flicker of recognition makes it even worse.

_Not now. She’s dead. Joan Watson died. No. She. Watson. No. Not now. Please. No, it is not her. Not her. Not her_ .

“Open the door, Sherlock. It’s Joan. There’s not enough time.”

 _Not now. Not ever._ _Four years. Not ever. Four bloody years._

“ _I’ll be back soon.”_

At least, she kept her promise.


	5. Still I Rise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You may write me down in history  
> With your bitter, twisted lies,  
> You may tread me in the very dirt  
> But still, like dust, I'll rise."
> 
> -Maya Angelou

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holmes and Watson finally meet.

Bell and Gregson rush towards the door, back to her voice, whilst Sherlock is too shocked to move or react. His eyes are closed too tightly; his hands are digging deeper and deeper into his flesh.

_Not Watson. Not her. For god’s sake, I was getting better. _

Silence once again dominates the entire Brownstone, but this time something is different. This time, the cause of the silence is now present, standing vulnerably at the corner of the room.

Gregson and Bell are talking to her, trying to know what happened. Trying to understand if she is alright. Trying to understand why she died and why she is back. Sherlock still has his eyes closed, listening intently to Mycroft’s words.

_“I think she’s the person you love most in the world.”_

Bell’s words soon take its place.

“ _Where’s your better half today, Holmes?”_

Gregson doesn’t hesitate to climb in.

_“She’s dead. She died.”_

The napoleon of crime, Jamie Moriarty, never loses her chance to add with a disdainful tone.

_“Tell me Sherlock, how does it feel to lose someone you cherish? My curiosity has taken a hold of me. Joan Watson. How does it feel to lose her?”_

Sometimes, even the brilliant of minds cannot handle it. No one told him; otherwise he would’ve prepared himself for it.

Another _bang_ on the floor. This time, it’s the entire table. Gregson, Bell and Watson jump _again_ in fear. If Sherlock had the smallest fragment of sanity left in him, then sympathising would’ve been easier. Pity, it’s all gone.

“Holmes-“ Bell starts, but is harshly cut off, sending a chill down Joan’s spine.

“No. Do not talk to me, Bell. Do not utter a word out of your mouth.”

Gregson speaks up. “I understand-“

 

“Someone _understands._ ” Sherlock’s tone is harsh, and indifferent. He doesn’t care. Not now, not ever. Her cheekbones have grown sharper, her hair longer, and her hands rougher. Watson’s stance is different; she is not guilty. This angers him even more, yet he cannot determine the reason behind it.

_“I’ll be back soon, Sherlock.”_

He wrote a letter. A bloody letter. To her. She had time to fake her death, but she didn’t have time to even check on her partner who had plummeting into darkness.

Watson shows the nerve to utter a word, and it is the final _tick_ to finally burst.

“Sherlock-“

He tears the curtains down, throws anything that his hand catches, violently kicks anything that comes into contact, and _even_ tears the manuscript into tiny, tiny pieces. He then repeats the processes again like it is a simple procedure of cellular mitosis, when cells keep regenerating themselves. Sherlock’s hands are flying into rage; his feet unable to keep itself still, and his anger, frustration, questions unable to die down.

“ _Get away from me; out of my sight.”_  Gregson’s and Bell’s attempts at holding him down are turning futile as every minute passes by, whilst Joan stands in one corner pressed to a wall, too stunned to register anything.

 _“I-“_ It is the final straw. Sherlock falls on his knees and buries his face into his hands. His limbs are shaking violently and threatening to burst out of their respective places.

 _“_ Why, Watson? Why?” Sherlock’s eyes are closed again, and his knuckles are turning purple. It threatens to turn the Brownstone upside down. It hurts them all, because Sherlock never asks questions. He answers them; he deduces them; he goes to any length to solve them. But he never asks them. The more open-ended question he asks, the angrier he is.

In this case, two questions are enough. It’s enough to let Joan Watson know that that she has crossed every limit possible. Clyde has stopped munching his lettuce, and is now eagerly watching the drama unfold.

Before she can open her mouth, it seems another force has taken Sherlock. He stands up, straightens up his shoulders, and walks confidently up to Captain Gregson and Detective Bell.

“Captain and Detective Bell, I appreciate your company but it would be much appreciated if you return back to the precinct to complete your tasks since crime never waits for a man. I would like to privately talk toDr Watson here.”

No partner. No consulting detective. Not even sober companion. He has hit the right spot this time.

_Bullseye._

In spite of everything, Napoleon Bonaparte never _just_ conquered his Austerlitz.

Joan knows she has been stabbed in the heart, and Gregson’s face shows it all. They nod in silence, and turn towards her for affirmation. Her eyes are enough to send them towards the door, and out in the cold gloomy day.

Sherlock drags a chair from nowhere, and places it exactly in the middle of the room. He’s not even a millimetre off.

“Sit, Dr Watson.”

( _It is the same chair he used when she was kidnapped; the chair he used when he tortured the man. She knows. She always knows.)_

She wants to fight back, to tell him that he has no right to refer to her as a doctor. After all that, he knows that he cannot do that. She wants to scream, and tell him that she wasn’t relaxing the entire four years. She wasn’t in a resort, sunbathing, laughing happily and not even letting any thoughts about New York in her head. A warehouse was not a resort. Starving of food and water was not relaxation. Unable to sleep on the cold hard floor was not happy. Thinking about what she had done to Sherlock Holmes every constant second was most certainly _not_ a form of redemption.

But she decides to sit, in the very same chair, with the very same position, with the very same expression. She wants to watch him today. After everything, after four years, she just wants to take him in. She just wants to watch, and watch because tomorrow he will forgive her. Tomorrow, he will be the same Sherlock Holmes again. Today, he’s letting her into something she has never seen before. Something dark; a mystery she has never solved before.

_How much does Sherlock Holmes really care about Joan Watson?_

Ironically, she wishes the scene wasn’t as melancholy as it is. Nonetheless, time can’t go back so she blinks her eyes a few times to adjust, and looks at him; the vision dead straight.

For a brief moment, her mind involuntarily wanders to the letter she sent him. The messenger had told him that Holmes never received it. She sent it again, hoping and begging. Oren’s childhood voice reverberates in her ear.

_“You can’t do anything right, Joanie.”_

The patient. He died.  
Liam. He never came back.  
Mycroft. She made the wrong choice to even know that man. _  
_Sherlock. He had recovered but _she_ crushed him again.  


Tears threaten to escape, but Joan ruthlessly squashes them down. She will not cry. Not now, not ever. She won’t fall. She didn’t fall in those four years. ( _Wrong. You fell numerous times, you liar)._

Her hands grip the sides of the chair for comfort. For stability; for balance.

Sherlock is watching her, trying to solve the puzzle. Trying to solve _her._  
She will not let him.

Joan Watson is not a toy. 

“Dr Watson, you’re most welcome to start with your very _interesting_ story.”

_“You can’t do anything right, Joanie.”_

_“Did you hear Mary Watson’s daughter quit medicine because of a mistake that killed her patient?”_

_“Miss Watson, how do you feel about the blood of an innocent man on your hands?”_

_“Former doctor accused of fraud by victim’s family.”_

_“Joanie, you cannot quit medicine.”_

_“People find their paths in the strangest of ways.”_

_“I am better with you, Watson.”_

_“Disgraced doctor turns to sober companionship for redemption.”_

_“Innocent man dies of a mistake by an esteemed surgeon.”_

_“You can’t do anything right, Joanie.”_

_“Loser.”_

_“Dumb idiot.”_

_“Can’t do anything right.”_

_“Joanie is a loser. Once a loser, always a loser.”_

It’s like a nursery rhyme, with the same tune, with the same tone, but with a different meaning.

_“Twinkle, twinkle, little star,_

_How I wonder what you are,_

_Down below the world so low,_

_Like a coward hiding below,_

_Twinkle, twinkle, little star_

_How I wonder what you are.”_

If a one-word answer existed to rhymes, it would be simple for the entire world to declare the answer. Joan Watson.

Sherlock is closing in to her thoughts, so she stops and stares back, with the same icy expression she was accustomed to for the four years.

It works, and he breaks eye contact at the exact moment she opens her mouth to speak.

“ _Mr Holmes.”_   Joan can see the subtle wince easily, and it is very, very cruel when her heart soars. So, she continues.

“My story is far from interesting, but I have no problems in repeating them,” Joan is _ready_ to show that she will not back down, “Four years and one month ago, on this date, I faked my own death. The reasons were very clear to me, but confusing to everyone I knew. My family and friends accepted my death, and grieved openly but there were others who was sceptical and never stopped hoping. Four years and one month ago, on this very day Mr Holmes, I accepted a run-down warehouse as my home, the spiders and cobwebs as my friends and Le Milieu as my enemy. _It was a very happy life, I have to assure you._ I sunbathed on the rooftop while snipers played a shooting game, and slept on a very comfortable floor as my enemies made plans to kill. Oh, of course Mr Holmes, if you were wondering I did manage to win the chess game but with a few _temporary_ scars here and there. I would absolutely love to classify the experience as one of the best holidays, maybe the best even. Every minute of it was thrilling. Naturally, seeing eyes gouged out precisely and bullet holes tearing the veins of human beings were anything but horrifying. I am considering doing and seeing that more often, don’t you agree? And to think, there was a reason behind this _extraordinary_ event.”

Sherlock knows. Guilt speaks from every corner of his body; from the eyes, hands, legs, expression, posture, stance, _even_ the tiny twitches of his veins. He doesn’t speak for a long time. It’s long enough for her to notice the dark circles beneath his eyes, callouses on his hands, rough stubble on his face, dishevelled hair and the rumpled clothing.

Her heart mends itself back again. Sherlock Holmes, after all, did care.

“I-“ It’s his time to get harshly cut off.

“You need not apologise.” The way she phrases the sentence reminds Sherlock of himself. The condescending, brusque tenor reminds him of the origin of his attitude.

“I was not _intending_ on apologising, my dear Watson.” Her eyebrows rise questionably at his answer.

“Oh _come_ on Sherlock. Dr Watson sounded so much _better.”_ Maybe these four years have turned her into a derisive, cynical prick.

She sounds so much like him now. He likes that too much, and there’s one thing he will never say, but would love to say: Joan Watson and Sherlock Holmes are uncompleted letters on a page but when they join, the letters don’t hesitate to convert into an incomprehensible yet brilliant word.

They are too hard to solve when they are together.

He knows. She knows. Clyde knows. The bees know. Every acquaintance they’ve come across, knows.

He smiles, and reminds himself to forgive her later, apologise, ask if she’s okay, freak out about her condition, blame himself for every incident, take care of her, but especially thank her for saving his life.

But first, something else needs to come first. He pushes his chair back, stands up swiftly, and extends his arm towards her. She returns his smile.

“My dear Watson, the bees have been pleading to meet you. Care to join me?” She doesn’t hesitate to stand as well, and puts her arm in the crook of his. Their shoulders touch.

_Home has never felt so familiar._

“As always, Sherlock. As always.”

And together, side by side, they walk up the stairs, and enter the rooftop. Into the night, there they sit; side by side, shoulder touching, as they watch Euglassia Watsonia sleep peacefully. The night sky doesn’t bother to hide its welcoming gaze.

_Incidentally, the water beads do win. After all, one cannot separate the inseparable._

_But still, like dust, we'll rise._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is done and dusted. I don't know how I feel about this chapter, but if the creators do decide to include a 'Reichenbach' somewhere, I imagined the meeting like this.  
> Sherlock is broken and he wants answers.  
> Joan is broken and doesn't want to answer them.  
> Both of them are adamant, so they have to compromise somewhere. The bees, it is.  
> Do let me know how you feel about this particular chapter, or the entire story in general. I love reading comments, so lots of them will most certainly make my entire year!!  
> The poem in the chapter summary is an incredible one by Maya Angelou, and in this case, I am portraying both Holmes and Watson as a team against the world. (God, that sounds like some epic fantasy movie!)  
> BUT APART FROM THAT, I WOULD LIKE TO THANK EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOU WHO CAME ON HERE TO READ THIS STORY, KUDOS IT, AND THEN COMMENT! I appreciated each and every moment, and you all are incredible human beings, so thank you so, so much.  
> I might add an epilogue later, I dunno. Maybe.

**Author's Note:**

> Alright. This is my first fanfiction, and I've been wanting to write since Elementary started. I absolutely adore Holmes and Watson! SO HERE IT IS.  
> Don't forget to let me know your thoughts. Feedback is much, much appreciated.
> 
> Cheers
> 
> AND OF COURSE, THE CHARACTERS BELONG TO ELEMENTARY
> 
> P.S: This story is dedicated to five (I found another one!) amazing writers on here. I cannot explain in words how amazing their stories are.


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